Of Blood, Dirt, and Apples
by Deccatrine
Summary: An insane stepmother who stays suspiciously young and beautiful. A dead and glowing mother in the dungeons. A rude gamekeeper who keeps shooting at her because he thinks she's sacrificing little woodland animals in satanic rituals. Great. Bloody great.
1. Prologue

The uncharacteristically hot sun of March beat down on the backs of the deliriously happy, but mostly intoxicated, crowd. The dust and gravel kicked up by the parade made the women that much more susceptible to tearing eyes, and the men that much eager to quench their dry throats with the freely flowing wine.

The Count of Etchingham surveyed the crowds with a cool and satisfied eye. That was the way it should be. His adoring, reverent populace was ecstatic about his impending marriage to the most beautiful girl in all the lands; and in his honor, they held an immense public celebration that the world had never before seen. As for his bride – she was to be the most gentle, loving, and doting creature that would be the key to his complete domination of the three Great Lands: Aubrey, Chiltern, and Stockton. He was that much closer to accomplishing a dream that used to seem as unattainable as the stars.

Holding the reins to his white steed steady, the Count turned his head slightly to once again assure himself that his precious Princess was safe within the open carriage. Despite being in the midst of such coarse and vulgar peasants, or perhaps _because _she was, the dear Princess gleamed as if she were a pearl nesting in her rouge pod. The Count's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized his prize more closely.

Etchingham would have preferred her hair to be a glorious and golden mane reaching her waist, and her eyes to be the deepest blue of the sea. However, he was more than willing to make compromises since she was, after all, the most beautiful and politically powerful woman within the Great Lands. He let out an inaudible sigh, somewhere between contentment and restlessness.

The Count flashed a winning smile at the trio of reasonably attractive peasant girls who had pushed their way to the front of the crowd. He mentally crowed with satisfaction as they nearly melted in a puddle of want. One of them managed to regain her presence of mind long enough to toss a small bouquet of white and yellow carnations in his direction, which he effortlessly plucked from the air. Without breaking eye contact, he tucked the modest flowers into his buttonhole with a winsome smile. That smile broke into a smirk when the wench almost fainted in her delight.

Turning back to the procession, he coaxed Polaris into a light canter in order to catch up with the carriage. On the way, he tugged the peasant flowers out and tossed them to the ground where they were trampled beneath the boots of his personal guards.

* * *

With a jolt, the girl woke from her muddled-minded doze. She whimpered in pain when the bright beams of the sun assaulted her weak eyes, sending answering sparks of agony through her skull. Her head lolled back to rest against the throw pillows stacked around her as she closed her eyes against the light that could not be completely blocked out. She swallowed with difficulty, her mouth so dry her tongue felt like a piece of sandy cotton. It was hot, too hot. She could nearly taste it – the flavor of salty, putrid sweat and cheap wine that could only be conceived when a swarm of drunken, perspiring, unclean bodies were compressed together in an unsavory mix. And, hell and damnation, she could hear the said unclean crowd around her as much as she could smell them. The blaring cacophony of instruments not meant to be played together, the off-key inebriated singing of gravelly voices, the giddy hysterical laughter of people who were not quite sure about the topic of their uproarious amusement . . .

Her eyelashes fluttered dazedly as she tried in vain to focus on something, anything. Everything was too bright, too loud, too hot, too heavy…

Too heavy?

She made two tries before she could lift her leaden arm to tentatively pat her head. Her hair was miraculously clean and soft for the first time since what seemed like an eternity, but there was something . . .

Her brows furrowed as weak fingers traced what was unmistakably a circlet. If she was not mistaken, the circlet was one of considerable value. Its weight suggested that it was made of gold and protrusions from the otherwise smooth surface were most likely precious gems. A sudden image flashed to the forefront of her mind. With a muffled groan, her hands rose to cradle her throbbing head.

No. The damned thing must come off.

Tugging at it fiercely, she yelped in pain as a few well-attached curls were pulled along with the circlet. Falling back on the pillows again in frustration, she slammed her fist against the soft material that was transferring even more heat to her uncomfortably dry and feverish body. She scowled. Beating a pillow was just not as satisfying as she wanted it to be.

A slight lurch in the reasonably steady movement brought her attention to the view in front of her. She stared dumbly at the four, glistening, bare male shoulders contorting and flexing under the weight of beams. It took her a while before she tore her eyes away from the well-muscled flesh to trace the beams back to their origin.

Realization slowly crept upon her. Great gods, was she always this slow? The men were carrying her carriage! As her eyes had finally adjusted to the bright light of noonday, she finally took in the sight before her.

People.

Crowds upon crowds of people were gathered along the long procession on the streets, singing, laughing, and drinking freely. Brightly colored confetti and rose petals were scattered along the hot winds. The blindingly gay colors of the peasant women's skirts swirled dizzyingly in her vision. Flowers and handkerchiefs were tossed to the soldiers sitting atop their horses. Jugs of wine were merrily shared between strangers and brothers.

A celebration?

What for?

Had there been any event worth celebrating these last centuries?

She frowned.

Had there been any event not worth celebrating these last centuries?

She groaned softly and buried her face into her hands. It was so hard to remember past the mist, the darkness.

The darkness?

How long had she been in the darkness?

An eternity, it seemed. A lifetime.

Did it?

But why? Why was she in the darkness? Was there a life before the darkness? Why couldn't she remember?

The noise of the crowd blended into one continuous deafening roar that battered her eardrums in continuous waves. She let out a small whimper as she clutched at her black curls.

Suddenly, the sounds of the crowd faded as the slow, rhythmic trot of a horse reached her ears. She slowly raised her head. A dapple gray mare, almost light enough to be white, approached the carriage with her rider.

She studied the man almost apathetically. He looked to be a person of high social standing. His posture was impeccable, his blond locks were arranged so that not one strand was out of place, and his expression was warm and concerned. His features were set in an almost pixie-like delicacy that was most uncharacteristic for a man. She hoped for a spark of recognition at the sight of this gentleman . . . but . . . nothing.

She gazed at him steadily, her mind absently noting the words he was vocalizing, but unable to bring herself to understand. She complacently allowed him to gently take her hands away from her hair and place them in her lap. She didn't break eye contact, even when he leaned over to gently tuck her hair back into place.

It was strange.

His expression was kind – congenial, even.

Yet, why was there a feeling of unfamiliarity that was almost frightening?

* * *

The Count of Etchingham's eyes crinkled a little in worry as he gazed upon his bride-in-the-very-near-future's lovely face. She was not simple, was she? The villains that he'd rescued her from had assured him that she was very spirited indeed. She had not, however, made a sound or movement except to stare at him with those wide eyes.

He absently rubbed Polaris between the ears when he shifted and pawed the ground restlessly. Something was making his noble steed nervous and his beautiful bride-to-be silent. He turned to scrutinize the still celebratory crowd closely, there was no suspicious activity that he could discern.

The Count turned back to his Princess. Smiling slightly, he tucked another loose curl behind her ear. Even if she were simple, she would be that much easier to control once they were married, would she not? What use did women have for a sound mind anyway? As long as she could be taught to love and worship him as she should, then she would make a suitable wife and queen. In fact, was he not lucky as to have such a convenient set-up? It was as if his Mother in heaven was carefully arranging the pieces for his rightful ascension to power.

Etchingham touched her chin lightly, the gesture seemingly gentle and tender. "Chin up, love. Smile and look charming for our adoring populace," he murmured affectionately. His Princess finally broke eye contact and turned to study his raised arm almost curiously.

There was a sudden draft, unsettling in its coldness in the midst of such hot weather. Almost at the same time, his precious prize cried out in pain as the circlet he had so painstakingly ordered his blacksmith to design was pinned to the wall of the carriage with an arrow. There were two heartbeats of utter silence except for the soft fluttering of petals and confetti in the wind.

Then, all hell broke loose.

* * *

She clutched her head in pain where several strands of her hair were viciously torn out when the circlet was shot off. Stirrings of a familiar hot anger took her. Glaring, she shouted furiously, "That ripped out my bloody hair, you blasted scoundrel!"

For the second time in less than a minute, shocked silence overtook the previously rambunctious crowd in waves. Their seemingly genteel countess-to-be, spitting out a profanity in her fury?

The silence was quickly filled with loud murmurs of approval and amusement. This was their kind of Countess! Emotions spread through the crowd like dye through water. Anger and indignation filled the peasants even stronger than when they first saw the arrow fly toward their Lady. Who had the appalling gall to attempt an assassination on their already beloved Countess?

The peasant men's crude weapons quickly found their way into hands as they searched amongst themselves for the culprit who suddenly seemed to be all around them.

Blasted scoundrel?

She slowly turned to look at the arrow buried deep into the carriage wall. The steel shaft of the arrow winked at her menacingly, daring her to retrieve her dark memories from the endless abyss.

She did.

With a bright, flaring pain from behind her eyes, images assaulted her from all sides, taunting her decision to remember. She cried out in pain, but desperately beat back the darkness creeping around the edges of her vision. She needed to see it all, needed to remember, needed to . . .

It was not a noise that attracted her attention, but rather the lack thereof. It was a bubble of movement, deafening in its silence that seized her awareness, dug its nails into it and refused to let go.

Heartbeat increasing, she turned sharply to stare directly into frosty, livid gray eyes.

Warren.

* * *

A/N: Well, that was the prologue. To avoid confusion, this particular scene is set in the "present," and Chapter 1 and on will be in the "past" until it leads up to this point. And then forwards. Yeah. Adore? Abhor? Do tell!


	2. Chapter 1

Trailing her finger along the dust, Jocelyn dully stared out of the glazed window. She pursed her lips as she caught a faint glimpse of her reflection. Letting loose a gusty sigh she fingered her choppy curls. This was getting ridiculous.

Her hair had finally grown past her shoulders, and she had taken such pains to avoid letting her stepmother see the long tresses. But she had been careless. Her stepmother, lunatic and lurker that she was, had caught her off guard while in the garden — claiming some rubbish about unhealthy split ends.

Of course, caring stepmother that she was, the woman instantly took out a knife that had been concealed God-knows-where and hacked off the black curls to her neck. Blasted shrew.

Then the _great _Queen Rhianne had the gall to order Jocelyn to "be a dear" and help the kitchen staff – as if she were a common servant girl!

Jocelyn sniffed indignantly as she tried in vain to rearrange her hair to her liking. No, if she were to be a servant at all she would look more like servant boy. Disgruntled, she turned away from the window.

"My Lady!"

Eyes alert, Jocelyn scowled lightly at the coarsely wheezed exclamation. Her _dear _Stepmother would have her believe that she keeps her servants based on the level of distaste she had for them. This particular servant was uniquely irritating with a whining intonation heard in every single word she spoke.

Servants might think they knew the castle well, but their knowledge of it was nothing compared to what Jocelyn knew of its hiding spots. Considering the time Jocelyn spent evading work, study and any other duties that might be, God forbid, productive, it would be disgraceful of her if she didn't know the castle as well as she did. Swiftly and nimbly, she slipped into an alcove that was hidden by a trick of the eye that made it seem like one continuous wall.

Jocelyn waited silently and patiently for the swishing of the servant's skirts to pass. She would slit her own throat before she, the daughter of a king, be made to scrub the kitchen floors.

Sighing quietly, Jocelyn leaned against the unforgiving coldness of the stone wall. It would be a while before all of Rhianne's dogs gave up searching for her. She would have to find a new hiding spot soon, but for now, she could stay where she was. Sighing again, Jocelyn slid to the floor.

Jocelyn had long ceased to care about the state of her clothing. It would not matter much anyway since Rhianne kept her hidden away like some shameful secret. Jocelyn rolled her eyes. There was something decidedly . . . _unhinged _about that woman.

She leaned her head against the wall. Sleepily, Jocelyn stared out at the window from across the hallway. The beams of the setting sun passed through the darkened glass of the window and glittered menacingly on the wall beside her. On impulse, Jocelyn slowly raised her arm to trace a faint pattern that was only visible because of the shadows created by the waning light.

Jocelyn hissed and pulled her hand back sharply when a point suddenly pierced her finger. Muttering curses, she examined her finger under the amber glow. Hand against the wall to push herself forward in hopes of getting better lighting, Jocelyn let out a small cry when the wall suddenly gave out.

The wall had given way to reveal a small tunnel leading into the darkness.

"That," she breathed, "was certainly never there before."

After a brief moment of indecision, Jocelyn ducked into the passage leading to the unknown.

What was the worst that could happen?

* * *

"What's the worst that could happen?" Jocelyn muttered under her breath after a few tense moments of feeling around in the dark. "Oh, let me count the possibilities." She let out another muffled curse when she accidentally walked into the wall as the dark passageway veered to the left. "I could get lost and be trapped in here forever and be forced to eat parts of my own body until I run out of body parts or I die from the blood loss."

Jocelyn paused in her progress, a little disturbed by her own thoughts. She shrugged. She _was _trying to think of the worst that could happen. She continued her morbid musings, entertaining herself by making her voice as melodramatic as she could.

"There could be a ravenous beast, prowling through these very passages, searching for its next victim to unleash its bloody fangs—" Jocelyn stumbled back with a strangled gasp caught in her throat.

"Or there could be a ghost."

Clutching her hands next to her racing heart, Jocelyn stared at the ethereal intruder.

"Tell me, do you actually find comfort in these gruesome scenarios of yours?" the she-ghost asked dryly.

The young woman only stared back with wide eyes, unable to speak. Jocelyn found a small comfort in the ghost's un-ghastly appearance. Well, mostly un-ghastly except for the fact that the woman (ex-woman?) was transparent, slightly glowing, floating a few inches off the ground, and most decidedly deceased. But if she disregarded all of the above the ghost was really quite lovely.

Her sharp features, strangely handsome, were softened and framed by her wavy dark hair that flowed to an enviable length Jocelyn could only dream of. The apparition strongly reminded Jocelyn of a graceful bird of prey. Her thick, shapely eyebrows accentuated her face so that it emanated a solemn beauty. A barely noticeable tinge of color in the otherwise pearly luminance of her incorporeal body determined her coloring to be similar to Jocelyn – dark hair and eyes, porcelain skin.

Jocelyn found her mind-numbing terror ebb away in fascination. If the ghost was to maim her it would have already done so, wouldn't it? And its presence in the mysterious dark passageway was awfully curious, wasn't it?

Swallowing, Jocelyn asked tremulously, "So, who are you?"

Having finished her own examination of the living girl, the ghost raised her eyebrow at Jocelyn. "Ah, it speaks," she remarked wryly. The ghost floated closer to Jocelyn, circling her. "But I do find you extremely rude," she narrowed her eyes, "not only did you not answer my question, you ask for my name but do not give yours. I do believe the offense is counted doubly so since this _is _my domain."

Jocelyn felt a stab of annoyance cut through her fear. "Pardon me," she said coolly. "While I apologize for ignoring your question, which was done politely in order to disregard its rude nature, no matter where this domain is, it _is _part of my Father's castle and so I believe you should be the one to answer my questions."

The ghost regarded Jocelyn with some amusement. "Your Father's castle?"

Drawing herself up, Jocelyn replied with dignity, "My Father, the King."

To her astonishment, the ghost threw her head back and laughed – a surprisingly charming, beautiful sound. Glaring and silently raging at her Stepmother once again for cutting off her hair, Jocelyn spoke stiffly. "You don't believe me." The words were spoken as a statement, but were a silent hovering question.

Surprising Jocelyn yet again, the specter only shook her head slightly and sent her an enigmatic smile. "No, dear child, I do believe your words. Except that they have no effect on me." She gave Jocelyn a pointed look. "What power could a mere man have over me?" She raised her eyebrow slightly in warning when Jocelyn opened her mouth to speak and nodded in approval when Jocelyn quieted. "Regardless, these rooms were given to me. Tobias would have no right to take them away from me."

Jocelyn looked at the phantom strangely when she referred to her father by name. "Who are you?" she asked again, her tone firmer and more demanding than the first time.

"Tell me, child, does the name Adele mean anything to you?"

Jocelyn felt a silent breath escape her but gave no indication of her perturbance. "Nothing."

Adele frowned. "What of your Mother, then?"

Jocelyn suppressed a giggle as a wicked thought occurred to her. She forced her expression into one of guarded honesty. "Queen Rhianne is my mother."

Jocelyn let out a strangled gasp for the second time that evening when the air around her literally froze and stole her breath away. Although afraid to, she nevertheless looked upon the ghost's face.

Adele had made no movement from the girl's statement, but her face was as still as stone, and her eyes . . . Her eyes were simultaneously the most terrible and most beautiful things Jocelyn had ever seen. They glittered with suppressed rage and ferocity.

The lack of air has started to compress her lungs and Jocelyn felt a sinking in her chest she often associated with doing something extremely daft. She had to defuse the ghost's anger and do it fast. A confession might do it, but it might also redirect the ghost's anger at her, but —

Oh damn it all to hell.

"It was a joke!" Jocelyn choked out desperately.

The increasing pressure promptly paused in its steady progress and ebbed in reluctant confusion. "Pardon?" Adele asked coldly.

"I know Adele LaVerne was my mother, and that you are she!"

There were two heartbeats of silence before Jocelyn heard Adele let out a slow breath that simultaneously seemed to be due to exasperation and an attempt at controlling her anger. She herself breathed a soft sigh of relief.

Adele had her eyes closed and her jaw ticked slightly. "I suppose I should be grateful that _that woman _was forced to suffer your antics for much longer than I." Pausing, she leveled a glare at Jocelyn. "In addition, that was quite possibly the most un-amusing joke I have ever had the misfortune of hearing in my entire life, and what came after my death."

Jocelyn shrugged weakly, too relieved to be offended.

The two women, old and young, dead and living, glowing and...un-glowing, eyed each other awkwardly.

"So you are my mother."

"And you are my daughter."

There was another moment of uncomfortable silence.

With a sudden movement, Adele thrust both hands into Jocelyn's head. It felt like her skull had filled with frigid water until it exploded with the force of the pressure. The girl fell to her knees with a short cry of pain.

"What the bloody hell was that for?!" Jocelyn shouted, glaring up at her deceased mother angrily.

Giving Jocelyn a haughty look, Adele examined her fingernails coolly. "That was for the utterly distasteful joke in which you made me believe that a daughter of my own flesh and blood supposed herself to be _that woman_'s child." Looking up with a sobering reprimand in her eyes, she frowned again as she took in Jocelyn's appearance. "It could also be a punishment for that ghastly hair of yours."

Jocelyn scowled. "It's hardly my fault that the Queen hacks off my hair every chance she gets."

Frown deepening, Adele questioned lowly, "She cuts your hair?"

Giving her a disgruntled look Jocelyn nodded. "She also dresses me up in these peasant garbs."

Although it was a bit of an exaggeration since the servants in the castle would never be able to afford garments that she was wearing, it was certainly much less than what a princess should be wearing. Jocelyn's gowns, though of a relatively comfortable fabric, were despairingly simple with absolutely none of the frills or laces according to the latest fashion.

Adele's expression became unreadable and Jocelyn watched her carefully. Would the dead Queen burst into a tidal wave of righteous, indignant rage for the abuse of her beloved daughter? The presence of a strong parental figure would indeed be a strange thing to have after years of independence. Her Father, bless his heart, was hardly one to sympathize or even protect her from the antics of her deranged Stepmother.

Quite inexplicably, Adele smirked.

Feeling more and more as if she had fallen down a rabbit hole to a world of the unknown, Jocelyn could only stare with wide, uncomprehending eyes as Adele circled her with the same enigmatic gaze.

Finally, Adele looked at her daughter with a satisfied air and Jocelyn waited expectedly. "Well, she could do her best and cut your hair and dress you in clown suits, but nothing short of pouring scalding hot water on would ever mar your beauty — my creation,"

Jocelyn stared. "Excuse me?" She was beginning to see where she had gotten her gruesome imagination.

With laughing eyes, Adele addressed Jocelyn with a lofty tone, "Why, didn't you know, darling? You are my creation, in every sense of the word."

Jocelyn shifted uneasily and wetted her lips nervously. "Then I would appreciate it if you would explain to me every sense of the word since I don't seem to be grasping the concept well enough."

"I created you so that your eyes would shine like the blackest obsidian. I created you so that your skin would mirror the palest snow and your lips mimic the bloodiest of reds. I created you so that your hair would be as sleek as a raven's wing, alive with the waves of the sea. I created you, and I gave birth to you. And then I gave my life for yours."

Jocelyn stared at Adele with wide eyes, and swallowed hard. "I'm assuming that the nature of that explanation isn't purely some twisted maternal pride?"

Adele only raised her eyebrow with slight amusement. "I'm a witch, my dear. I did wonder if your dear Stepmother told you that."

* * *

Jocelyn opened her mouth but did not quite know what to say. "My Stepmother told me a great deal of things and called you many things, but I didn't think it sensible to believe everything that came spewing out of her mouth."

A cold laugh escaped the ghost. "Unfortunately, you would be wise to believe at least some of what she said."

Smiling unsurely, Jocelyn gazed at her mother with no small amount of curiosity. "So, a witch then? Fascinating."

"Do you want to be one?"

The sudden question startled Jocelyn and she stared at Adele. "It is an interesting thought, to be sure, but I have since decided myself to not be a creature of any magic."

"Oh?" Adele looked upon her daughter with amusement. "Since when?"

"Since I was seven and failed to shut my door from across the room." Jocelyn answered promptly. In all actuality, it was a prepared lie. She had determined herself to be decidedly un-magical when she failed to transform Lady Rhianne's shears into cloth when she was first cornered and had her hair viciously hacked off.

"We are living in a fairy tale," Adele said ironically. "Everything has magic." Slowly, she lifted her ghostly hand so that it was almost resting against her daughter's cheeks. "And contrary to popular belief, witches are made, not born."

Jocelyn slowly considered Adele's proposal. On one hand, she would be literally considered the Devil incarnate if she really became a witch. On the other, she could simply burn all those who opposed her if she so pleased.

Jocelyn shrugged. "I accept your proposal." Taking in Adele's pleased countenance, she paused and added, "Mother."

Adele's restrained smile promptly froze, and an unmistakable softness stole across her face for such a brief second, leaving Jocelyn to doubt what she had seen.

It really was quite strange, Jocelyn had met her Mother for the first time in her sixteen years of life. As if being a ghost were not odd enough already, Adele's youthful appearance of a woman of 25 had been frozen in time. Although, the strangest thing about the entire situation (besides Adele's glowing and floating state) was Adele's closed countenance.

For all of Jocelyn's life, the people around her had seemed like books, open for her perusal. Her Father was never any good at hiding his emotions though logic demanded that a man of such high social standing should learn how to maintain a passable façade. With a quiver of his peppered beard and creases of his eyes, King Tobias' thoughts and feelings were as easily read as if they were printed across his brow.

Her Stepmother, though better than her Father at maintaining appearances, always gave away signs of her madness. Queen Rhianne seemed like a gentle and sweet woman at the first glance. Her voice was honeyed and charming, and her soft, pale green eyes drew one in like a moth to a flame. However, Jocelyn had somehow earned the privilege to see a side of the Queen that no man or woman had ever seen. When Rhianne cornered Jocelyn, often with a pair of shears in one hand, her voice would remain gentle and coaxing, but the intensity in her eyes was manic.

It was those eyes that kept Jocelyn awake and shaking in bed at night, those eyes that constantly reminded Jocelyn of what her Stepmother really was, regardless of her seemingly sweet nature.

Adele, however, was a completely different matter.

No matter how much she strained to catch Adele in her true state, Jocelyn was only able to glimpse flashes of her Mother's true thoughts and feelings. Strangely enough, the emotions that Adele was trying to conceal seem to be _good_.

What Jocelyn understood of human nature even from her relatively sheltered life was that people attempt to hide the wickedness in them and flaunt the virtues they do possess or have the passable ability to imitate.

Thus, Adele's motives and thoughts were completely enigmatic. Jocelyn simply had no idea how to even start figuring out her mother. Perhaps a little . . . history lesson would aid matters along.

"M—" Jocelyn choked on the word even before it came out. The first time she called Adele — _that _—did not mean much, but if said again then it could mean a million different things.

"Don't hurt yourself, love," Adele raised an amused eyebrow. "Lady Adele is an acceptable form of address. You are under no obligation whatsoever to call me anything else."

Jocelyn looked up quickly. Adele's level dark eyes showed no sign of displeasure but they did not show signs of anything else either, except perhaps detached amusement. "Is mind-reading part of witchcraft?"

The ghost gazed at Jocelyn with a deadpan expression. "I am no longer a witch."

"Then what are you?"

Adele looked at Jocelyn with a slightly disconcerted expression. "I'm dead."

"Dead?" Jocelyn echoed blankly.

"I have passed on. I am no more. I have ceased to be. I have expired—"

"I knew what being dead means," Jocelyn cut in hastily, glaring at her mother balefully. She narrowed her eyes when Adele only gazed back calmly. "I _meant _to ask if being dead affects your powers."

Sighing, Adele raised her hand so that she was looking through it to meet Jocelyn's eyes. "An integral part of witchcraft involves physical contact, which, unfortunately I am unable to do." Her eyes hardened slightly when hints of pity entered Jocelyn's expression. "Do you need me to demonstrate?" Her hands were hovering and turned towards her daughter in a vaguely threatening position.

Jocelyn hurriedly backed up until her back hit the corridor wall. "That would be unnecessary," she mumbled and then frowned as a thought occurred to her. "How are you to teach me witchcraft if you can't manage physical contact?"

Adele pursed her lips in slight annoyance. "Instruction of the Arts does not need physical contact."

Jocelyn colored slightly in embarrassment. "Right. Of course. I knew that." She bit her lip in the moment of silence that followed. "So what _does_ instruction of the Arts constitute?"

Jocelyn squirmed in chagrin when her mother gave her a look that she was beginning to understand meant, _you idiot_.

"Same as any other instruction."

Jocelyn stared at the ghost in confusion.

"Reading."

Jocelyn squinted at Adele, "Read what?"

Adele's facial features twitched a little before she began explaining patiently, "There are these things called ink and paper. When ink is put to paper in marks that have meaning, we call those letters that can also be rearranged to form words that can also be arranged—"

"I know what books are Mother," Jocelyn snapped with irritation, "there is no need for your condescension."

"When you stop asking asinine questions," Adele only said archly, "you will stop getting asinine answers."

Jocelyn sniffed and mother and daughter glared at each other for a few seconds.

Sighing, Jocelyn decided to continue with her questions since her Mother was hardly forthcoming in her answers and explanations. "Where, pray tell, are said books I am supposed to read, _Mother_."

It was ironic the way Jocelyn only felt comfortable calling Adele _that _when she was annoyed with her. Equally ironic was the fact that both of them were so clearly uncomfortable with expressing their sincere and fond feelings for each other. Jocelyn was sure that she did not display the reactions typically seen when confronted with one's undead mother.

Jocelyn looked up, alert, when her Mother's sheer form gracefully drifted back.

"Take a look around, you clever child, you," Adele intoned with a mocking expression on her face, "these are the Corridors of the Forbidden Books."

It was only when Adele floated closer to the walls that Jocelyn saw that they were not walls but shelves containing books upon books. The sheer numbers of the thick and dusty volumes were dizzying. "But. . ." Jocelyn murmured with a tone that was torn between awe and trepidation, "I thought banned books were immediately confiscated and burned?"

Adele stared at Jocelyn. "Yes, yes, you _are _right. On second thought, these books really were burned. Why listen to an old fool like me, blabbering on about all of these burned books. What do I know? I've only been here for sixteen years." Her sarcasm evaporated with a sigh when her daughter sent her a sulky and ill-tempered look. "I apologize. Yes, I understand that it was a rhetorical question." Her pale hand rose to rub her brow absentmindedly. "There really is no excuse for my attitude. I suppose I feel a little tetchy from being in foreign situations that once were natural to me."

"That was, no doubt, the worst apology I've ever received," Jocelyn said dryly.

Adele gave her a light scowl. "Be grateful you are getting one at all, girly," she said sharply. Sighing, her clasped hands twitched slightly as if itching to tug at her lovely evening gown.

"So how _did _these books come to be here?"

Jocelyn nibbled her bottom lip in slight worry as well as excitement as Adele's lips lifted into an unmistakable crafty _expression_.

"Initially, Tobias was so dearly misled by those trembling, God-fearing advisors who dread the existence of these delightful and illuminating books. Fortunately for your Father he had a brilliant woman for a wife who counseled him instead to stash the banned books into a library. Of course," she sent a sweet look at Jocelyn, "they would not actually be read by anyone. However, to destroy knowledge, God's greatest gift to mankind, is simply a_ sacrilege_."

Jocelyn regarded Adele with a careful and amused look. "I believe knowledge was _Satan's_ greatest gift to mankind."

Adele's mouth formed an exaggerated "O" of surprise. "You naughty, naughty child. That was blasphemous and completely inappropriate." Her expression was unmistakably proud. "It seems you are my child after all." Turning sharply, she drifted down the corridor and pointed her ghostly finger at one volume. "Now that we have determined that you have not been completely brainwashed by your Father's sheep-like advisors, start with this book first."

* * *

Adele narrowed her eyes in annoyance and displeasure when Jocelyn squirmed in her seat for the third time in five minutes. The ghost studiously ignored the looks that were shot at her.

The ghost finally rose from her sitting position and glared at her daughter. "From what I remember, you should be sixteen years old not _six_. If you do not desist with your silliness this instant, I will plunge my fingers into your brains."

Jocelyn pouted. "But this is mind-numbingly dull." She sulked when she received a hard look from her mother. "Why do I have to memorize the properties of all these plants anyway? Can't I just look them up when I need to?"

Arms crossing in a deceptively dainty manner, Adele looked at Jocelyn coolly. "Yes, darling. Feel free to haul around several heavy tomes around the forest when you find you need to pick anything of use."

Jocelyn scowled. "But this is just so dreary and _unexciting_."

Adele glared at her. "My role here is teacher, not an entertainer. Do all mothers have to go through this?"

"I wouldn't know. I never had a mother."

Adele glanced sharply at Jocelyn's soft response. "Girl, you need to distinguish between real questions and rhetorical questions."

Jocelyn shrugged and turned back to her book.

"Jocelyn."

Her eyes remained stubbornly lowered.

"_Jocelyn_."

"What?" Jocelyn muttered petulantly.

Adele sighed. She rubbed her temples, nursing a phantom headache. "What exactly do you expect a mother to do?"

Jocelyn dropped her book and faced her, expression instantly morphed into one of eagerness and curiosity, its transition so fast that Adele rather suspected that—

"Tell a story!"

For the first time since Jocelyn met her Mother Adele's face fell into an expression of uninhibited horror and disgust. Jocelyn stifled a giggle.

Adele glared at her. "I may care for you in a maternal way but I am _not _telling you any _fairy tales_ that—"

Jocelyn snorted with laughter. Adele frowned at her daughter's unladylike manners. Jocelyn only grinned. "I don't mean _fairy tales, _dear Mother-with-a-strictly-maternal-love, but _your _story."

"My story?" Adele looked slightly startled.

"Of course." Jocelyn raised an eyebrow. "Come, come, you did not think I would just simply forget the absolutely exciting details that you mentioned, did you? A little hint here, a little hint there. To be honest, you had me gnawing on those facts in my mind for the past three days now. I would think you did it on purpose."

Adele rolled her eyes slightly at her daughter's taste for melodrama. "It is hardly as interesting as you think it is." She sighed when Jocelyn scowled at her. "But if you insist." Adele gazed upwards contemplatively as she struggled to find a starting place. It was not exactly difficult to recall the memories since they were at the forefront of her mind. During her sixteen years of solitude, Adele had done nothing but relive her life, her memories, her emotions, and ambitions over and over and over.

Now that she was asked to actually narrate those events, she did not even know where to begin. The specter frowned to herself. She might as well start as all stories start. "Once upon a time, there was a girl born to a widowed Baroness. She had two older brothers, so what little power there was to inherit would automatically go to the male heirs of the family while she was to be married off to the highest bidder. The girl and her family lived in a modest manor very close to the forests of the King. Every morning, the girl looked out of her window to see the sun casting its warm rays upon the King's castle as if even the heavens themselves favored the powerful. Every morning, the very sight of the castle filled her with awe, admiration, rage, and bitterness. She bitterly envied those in possession of power, of choice, of _control_. She lamented her own status in life. Why should she be cursed to a life of eternal dissatisfaction as she would inevitably be sold off to some baron, an earl if she were lucky, and forced to submit to the touch of her fat lump of a husband?

"Even in her adolescent years, the girl had already started to hate her future husband and gradually all men. They had so much power at their disposal, but they took everything for granted. They had so many opportunities to become greater and wealthier, yet they chose to remain the fat lumps they were and live off the money that their ancestors accumulated until they were poor and had to crawl to their wives for advice they had never followed."

Jocelyn listened to her Mother with her mouth slightly parted. Although she rather expected Adele to narrate in a detached tone, her mother was clearly reliving the events through her own words and could not keep the emotion from her voice. Her mother was a marvelous storyteller.

"The girl's beliefs remained like so for her entire childhood. As she grew up, she attended the balls she was obligated to attend though she did not care much for them. What was the point if she did not possess the best gowns? But attend she did, and her manners were impeccable and her dancing unrivaled. However, her disdain and indifference for these social functions were distinctly apparent, and her manner became known throughout the lands, as was her blossoming beauty.

"At first, the girl posed an amusing challenge to the young men of the royal courts. But as their amorous advances had absolutely no effects on her, their 'amusement' became obsession. The men longed to be the one to conquer the unconquerable. They longed to have the aloof beauty at their feet, adoring and worshipping for the entire world to see. They wooed, they flirted, they sent gifts, they wrote ghastly poetry, and their egos were shattered one by one.

"By that time, the girl realized that she finally had something she never had all her life. She had the amazing power of choice. Because of her beauty, men of all ranks were vying for her hand, and she did not have to settle for a fat lump of a baron. She could decide to promise herself to viscounts, earls, or even dukes! She could decide who to take to her bed, she could refuse those she had the slightest distaste for. Suddenly, she realized that she could do _anything_. Men would be her stepping stones for her own rise to power.

"The girl was young when she first met a Duke. He was handsome, charming, and as infamous as she was in the grapevine of the royal courts. Apparently, he'd bedded half of the women of the kingdom of Aubrey – the beautiful ones anyway – and broke just as many hearts. The girl at first did not even bother to spare the womanizer a glance. However, the Duke was clever. He knew lavishing the girl with persistent presents and poetry would not spark her attention. He would _make _her want him. He seduced every single one of the girl's lady companions. The 'victims' were not exactly the girl's friends, but she certainly heard about it when their hearts were broken. It made her amused and infuriated at the same time. How dare this man seduce half of the kingdom but not even bother to dance one dance with her?

"The entire royal court had already succumbed to the Duke's charms – all except the girl. By that time, she realized that it was too much of a coincidence that the Duke lavished all his attentions on those that surrounded her. She decided to play his game. The girl deliberately let herself be seen as finally 'weakening' with the barest flicker of glances at the Duke just as his gaze grazed hers. She asked a few questions that were casual but were well-noted in her circle of acquaintances. The barest of whispers reached the ears of the court that the ice maiden was finally showing interest in a man – the infamous Duke, no less.

"Feeling self-assured in his victory, the Duke finally approached the girl. He expected a little resistance for the sake of appearances from her, but she would surely surrender in but a short matter of time. He was a self-absorbed man, and the concept of a woman in possession of crafty intelligence was foreign to him. Days passed, weeks passed. The girl remained aloof. The Duke became more frustrated and more enthralled.

"The Duke and the girl's unique courting came to a standstill when one day, the girl took in an injured huntsman into her home. She was slightly amused when the man woke to become completely enamored of his 'guardian angel.' Imagine her surprise when the man's servants arrived in a panic, revealing that the huntsman was in fact the young King. The girl became entranced with the idea of having the power of a Queen. But, what of the Duke? It should have been simple enough to choose the King over the Duke, but the girl could not deny the connection between herself and the similarly devious man.

"She let herself be taken to the Duke's bed that very night. She revealed to him her decision to enter courtship with the King. Amazingly, the Duke was not angered and in fact suggested a wicked clandestine affair instead. Intrigued, the girl accepted. And why should she not? She had the choice to continue a relationship for the sake of power, and another relationship for the sake of passion.

"The girl began a life that seemed most satisfactory. What was more, she was falling in love with the Duke. However, she was continuously uneasy of the rather infamous reputation the Duke had and wondered at his easy acceptance of her courtship with the King. It was then the girl started delving into witchcraft. She did not actively use the Arts even though she studied diligently over the few books she was able to procure. The Arts were merely means of insurance. Using witchcraft, the girl was able to make sure that the King's love for her never wavered, and using witchcraft, she was able to continuously check upon the faithfulness of her lover.

"All was well and the courtship with the King had become a splendid success. She and the King wedded in a joyous celebration in which all three kingdoms partook. The Duke was affectionately charming and endlessly amusing. The girl never felt so content in her life. She also never felt so worried. Now, she had everything to lose.

"One night, the girl's spells detected an unborn child of the Duke's blood. And she was not pregnant."

Adele glanced at her entranced daughter seated in front of her and suppressed a snort of laughter. She yawned daintily and fanned herself lightly. "My, it _is _getting rather late." A smirk spilled out at Jocelyn's expression. "Tomorrow, dear Daughter. I will tell more of the story tomorrow."

Jocelyn scowled fiercely, looking for all the world like a displeased kitten. "_Why_?"

"Because I am fatigued," Adele examined her ghostly fingernails carefully.

"You're _dead_."

"The dead can be weary. Do not be so foolish as to believe that enervation is an exclusive privilege of the living," Adele said with a hint of sharpness in her tone. Jocelyn quieted but still pouted. Adele sighed. "You will be missed."

Jocelyn heaved an exaggerated sigh of regret. "Then it cannot be helped." Getting up to her feet quickly, she gave her mother a cheerful wave. "Until tomorrow, then!"

Adele narrowed her eyes. Before Jocelyn could make her quick escape, Adele flitted in front of her causing the young woman to scramble backwards to avoid the pain of touching the ghost. Jocelyn blinked and gave Adele an innocent grin.

"Three samples of the six properties you read today will be due to me if you want me to continue the story." Jocelyn's face fell and twisted into confusion. "Three herbs _each _for the six properties."

Jocelyn's eyes turned positively _teary_. Adele snorted.

* * *

A/N: So that was chapter 1. My thanks to everyone who read this story and cyber hedgehogs to those who reviewed. Much love to all of you. In case you didn't read the first A/N in the prologue, the story is now in the "past" and will lead up to the prologue. And Warren will pop up next chapter. And… Any feedback would be much appreciated, so… please review!!


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